Saturday, August 15, 2015

Summer, by p d lyons

  In June the dead come
October too cold
Perhaps reminiscent of that part of being dead
They’d most like to forget

We talk about the past
After all what else do we have in common?

Mostly women come.
Perhaps because I always went to them
Or maybe death, a vulnerability, makes men shy?
Either way we sit where it is I am these days,
   Outside the kitchen
      By an old apple tree
        Across the sea
           Left behind
            The lands they knew me in
             No longer needing now to wander

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